Maps
by FrancypantsIII
Summary: Oneshot. Father-Son France-Canada. Young little Mathieu seems to be entranced with one of the maps Francis has laying on his desk as they sail from the New World back to Europe. As it turns out, the location he is focusing on is not random.


**Author's Note:** This is why I should not write late at night without a prompt. I tried fitting Francis and Mathieu's personalities into the situation the best I could, and it is a human AU. The French is really basic, so I apologise if it is incorrect.

**Warnings:**Character Death

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

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><p>The snow crunched sharply under his feet as the tall blonde tried to find his way. His long hair trailed him as he looked around, rubbing his hands together in little circles and breathing into his palms in useless attempts to warm up. He was lucky he could still see them; the falling snow was thick, the winds bit at his face, and there was no seeing though this blizzard.<p>

He cussed in French under his breath; he managed to find his own footsteps and was now on the same path as before. He was hopelessly lost. His once-silky hair now tangled itself into frozen sticks that hung around his face and stabbed his neck. He tried retreating into his coat to no avail, since the thinner fabric wasn't made to be worn in such harsh weather conditions. He hadn't planned on going into snow, let alone lost in a storm. He had been exploring the coastline of this 'New World' of sorts, and while his ship was at port, he went farther inland to see what this land had. So far, it was only snow.

The snow suddenly got deeper and Francis stumbled forward, throwing his hands in front of him to break his fall and his hair landing in his face. He was mere inches away from the thick layer of snow, his misty breath bouncing off the crystals and stinging his eyes. He dug his knee into the bank and pushed himself up. If he couldn't find a way out soon, he'd surely freeze. There wasn't anything in this frozen wasteland, nothing but ice and snow blanketing all the pine trees with white and freezing the lakes over.

He looked to his right, and beyond the dunes of white, there was a glimmer of hope that hit him deep in the chest. A large tree had fallen over, presumably from a lighting strike, and its huge pine bows offered shelter from the blasting winds. Not much shelter, no, but shelter. If he could manage to maybe even break a few and layer them, he'd have better chances of keeping the warmth he had.

It took him a bit of stumbling -he was going against the wind and was being pushed back constantly- to get to his haven. Snow had piled up around it and created makeshift walls, all the more protection from the storm. He staggered to the tree itself and snapped one large bow from the truck by throwing his shoulder against it a few times. He lugged it over to the depression in the snow and shimmied it on top, his sad attempt at a covering, but it was all he could do.

He crawled his way in, instantly saved from the wind, but still shaking violently. He dug his hands into the snow and pushed the snow aside, making for more room. It was slow work, but he eventually gave himself enough space, and then some. He brushed the snow from a branch of the tree, only to find that it wasn't a part of the tree at all.

It was the face of a young boy.

"-?! Mon dieu!" He frantically brushed away the rest of the snow burying him, revealing the pale and motionless body of the frail child, his eyes closed like he was merely enjoying a nap. The boy's lips and fingers were blue; he was dressed in nothing but a nightgown.

Francis ripped off his own coat and pulled the boy to his chest, cradling him in his arms and carefully resting his head against his shoulder. He grabbed his jacket and threw it over the two of them, holding the boy tight and tucking the coat around him. The boy was so young, so small, it was hard to figure out why he was in the snow. He clutched the boy, finding himself subconsciously rocking him. The child was unresponsive, curled in Francis's lap and breathing in slow, shallow, and barely audible breaths.

"Ce pourrait être la fin pour ce pauvre..." He looked down at the boy's face and brushed his wavy hair aside, surprised he lasted as long as he had. He felt a pang of compassion as he realized how similar the child's hair was to his own. But there was no time for such trivial matters.

"Si seulement il y avait quelque chose que je pouvais faire pour lui..." There was nothing he could do but pray that what little heat he could share would be enough to save the boy. He started to hum in attempt to comfort him, believing that, perhaps, one last comfort would be enough for the child to pass in peace.

His eyes widened in astonishment as the boy weakly stirred and moved his arm, grabbing a fistful of the fabric of Francis's shirt. He curled closer to Francis's chest, drawn by the warmth, and slowly opened his eyes. Francis's sapphire gaze met the unsteady indigo of the boy's and his heart melted.

"A-Are you…...an a-angel…..?" The boy muttered weakly, his voice shaky and dry. His eyes were only half open and he struggled to stay awake.

How could he answer such a question? The young child believed that an angel had come to take him into heaven. Francis was nothing more than an explorer. He was far from an angel, but to this little boy was a different story. Francis weakly shook his head, hesitating in fear of disappointing the boy. He held him closer, trying to find words that would comfort him. If he could keep him awake, perhaps he'd have a better chance. "Je t'appelles-tu….? W-What is….your name….. m-mon petit?" Francis's own voice shook, but he forced himself to steady in order to keep them both calm.

He took a while, closing his eyes and opening them slowly again. "...j-je…..m'appelle M-Mathieu."

"J-Je m'appelle F-Francis." Francis smiled softly, impressed with Mathieu's fluency in French as well. This little boy had to have been from a settlement somewhere along the coast. Maybe it was the port town where his ship was. This boy had a family he had been separated from. Francis had to get out of this storm- No. He had to get Mathieu out of this storm. This boy was far too young to die. At least not alone. Being as small as he is, Mathieu had a chance to returning to normal life, but just that. A chance. "D-Don't w-worry, Mathieu…..I'll b-bring you h-home to your f-family." Francis assured him, cradling him close to his chest.

Mathieu was silent again, shivering and holding loose fistfuls of Francis's shirt. He shook his head after a while, parting his lips just barely, "...I d-don't…..I d-don't have o-one." He rested his face farther into Francis's chest, breathing softly. He didn't have much longer.

"W-Well…...N-Now you d-do….m-mon fils…." Francis whispered softly, hugging whom was now his adopted son closely to himself. He could tell he was slowing down, as well as the boy. Would they really make it out of the storm?

"...j-je t-t'aime…..P-Papa…"

The blizzard lasted through the night. Going out to check his traps, a young man bundled up tightly and went off in along the coastal wilderness. Pelts were worth a lot these days, sent off to France to be turned into garments. The snow had done it's job and covered them up rather well, so digging for them was routine. Every now and then, a few surprises would come along.

Such as a father and son, embracing the end as a family.


End file.
